


Except Upon Occasions

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cured Dean, Demon Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, M/M, Non-Explicit, Pre-Slash, Song Lyrics, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 14:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12534144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: Sam has seen Dean die. Has seen the light and life leave his brother’s eyes, seen his body go still and grow cold.But he’s never come so close to losing Dean as he had these past weeks.And now Dean is back. He’s here. And Sam can breathe again.





	Except Upon Occasions

**Author's Note:**

> My response to the October Wincest Writing Challenge on Tumblr. Challenge was Fictional Book Titles: my prompt was "Men of Insanity".
> 
> Lyrics from "Silence" by Marshmello. Title taken from this quote by Edgar Allen Poe: "I was never insane, except upon occasions when my heart was touched."
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback keeps my world turning.

 

 _I_ _found peace in your violence  
_ _Can’t tell me there’s no point in trying_

 

Sam can breathe again. Dean is here: quiet, withdrawn, ghosting around the fringes of the Bunker like his presence will offend Sam. He’s pale, the Mark is red and livid on his arm, and there are dark circles under his eyes, but they’re _clear_ \- green and brilliant as ever, and clear of that inky darkness that chilled Sam to his bones.

Sam has seen Dean die: a hundred times and more, thanks to that utter asshole Gabriel, and more than once in reality. Hellhound claws raking open his chest and belly; blood oozing sluggishly from the gash left by Metatron’s blade. Sam has seen the light and life leave his brother’s eyes, seen his body go still and grow cold.

But he’s never come so close to _losing_ Dean as he had these past weeks.

And now Dean is back. He’s _here_. And Sam can breathe again.

He thinks back to his Psych 101 class, so many years ago it’s actually almost comical; he remembers their discussion on madness and sanity, and that unattributed quote that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

They’ve done this same song and dance so many times. Things haven’t been the same for so long: not since Dean went to hell, since Sam went crazy with the loss, since Ruby’s thick, viscous blood seeped into his veins and twisted their relationship beyond repair; the better part of six long years. There have been good moments, and awful ones, but they’ve never gotten back the magic of their childhood, their adolescence, those first few years on the road. They swing back and forth between love and hate, like a pendulum, and nothing ever changes in the end.

It’s time to break the cycle. And Sam knows just how to do it.

So when Dean slinks from his room, face tense and drawn with new lines that Sam has never seen around his eyes and mouth, and slips into the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee as quietly as humanly possible, Sam steps up behind him and curls his arms around Dean’s waist, rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder, feels his brother stiffen like a board at his touch.

The coffeepot trembles dangerously in Dean’s hands and he sets it very carefully on the counter. “Sam,” he breathes out, emotion that Sam can’t quite put his finger on heavy in the word, and it might be the first word Dean has said to him in three days.

Sam chooses not to reply with words, letting his hands coming up to cradle Dean’s quivering ones be the answer to Dean’s unasked question. He strokes his own fingers over Dean’s, feels the callouses under his fingertips. He gets the briefest flash of those fingers curled around the handle of the cruel, heavy hammer, but he forces that image away and brings his body just a fraction of an inch closer to Dean, pulls his brother just a tiny bit further into his arms, and feels Dean’s shaking intensify.

“Sam,” Dean says again, a hint of terror and urgency in the word now. Sam still doesn’t speak, just lets his hands skate across Dean’s bare forearms - he’s wearing a loose, soft t-shirt, which is Winchester naked - like a whisper. When he reaches the Mark, angry and hot to the touch, he trails his fingers, feather-light, over the scar, barely touching it at all.

Dean gasps at the touch, his sharp inhale like a man suddenly robbed of breath, and his head drops backward, heavy on his neck. “ _Sam_ ,” he says once more, more like a plea than anything else, and third time’s the charm.

Sam tightens his hands and turns Dean in his grasp, spinning him around so they’re facing each other. He takes in Dean’s face, still pale but with twin spots of colour high on his sharp cheekbones, and his wide eyes, fixed on Sam’s for the first time in days. Green and brilliant and clear.   

Sam slides his hands back down Dean’s arms, stopping when he reaches Dean’s wrists. He can see - and feel - the marks left by the restraints that had bound Dean to the chair. Sam closes his fingers around the bones of Dean’s wrists, grip loose so as to not irritate the chafed skin. “It’s over,” he says, soft and quiet and certain; the same words he’d used when he slammed the demon cuffs around his brother’s wrist, heard the snarl of the demon in the rough of Dean’s voice. “It’s over,” he says again, and when Dean sways like a tree falling, Sam is there to catch him.


End file.
